Part 2: Light in Your Eyes, Casting Shadows in Your Soul
by Daggers.Silver
Summary: This story picks up about two weeks after the events of The Darkness That Lies Within Us. If you have not read that, I suggest doing so. You don't have to, but you will understand a lot more if you do, since it is basically the first half of the story. This fic will follow Stiles and Derek's recovery and the pack's efforts against their hidden supernatural enemy.


**A/N: Sooooo, I felt SUPER bad about ending the first fic the way I did, so I'm posting the sequel EARLY! You guys make me so happy and I always feel bad about the huge gaps between my writing, especially when the long wait earns you a crappy chapter, or a short chapter, or more unanswered questions. And I apologize that this chapter probably still leaves all the questions unanswered, but you're following Stiles in this chapter and he doesn't really have answers either at the moment. I also apologize for the LACK OF DEREK. And it looks like it'll be another few chapters before he makes an appearance. I really didn't orchestrate it that way, so blame Derek for hiding. XP**

 **But here it is. When I started The Darkness That Lies Within Us, I wasn't planning on a multi-chapter for a sequel, but I can say that is definitely going to happen. Whether that's good or bad for you... well, let's find out. XD**

 **Disclaimer: I really don't know why I put these things up. You're all on a fanfiction website, of course you know the characters and such, unless specified, are not mine. XD But... Teen Wolf is not mine, I just take the characters and do stuff to them for my enjoyment (and pain).**

 **000**

 **Chapter 1**

 _this is how i show my love_

 _i made it in my mind because_

 _i blame it on my A.D.D., baby_

000

After a week of tube-feeding and unconsciousness, and another week in which he ate next to nothing, Stiles is beginning to feel the effects of malnutrition. He feels it in the way his head spins and his vision flickers each time he stands up. Good thing he doesn't do much standing these days. Or maybe it's not malnutrition; maybe it's the after-effects of the Acheri. Fourteen-ish days - he's kinda lost track after the first seven - and they're still lingering. He can't climb the stairs without stopping for a break halfway and even if he wanted to eat, he doesn't think he'd be able to keep it down. And he still looks like a ghost. At least, that's what he assumes. He hasn't looked in the mirror (except for once since he got back, but he had a full-blown panic attack when he spotted his reflection.), but if he looks as pale as he feels, then he's not surprised by the facial expressions people make when they see him. _If_ they see him.

He doesn't see many people these days either. Except for his dad. And that's usually at night when he wakes up screaming with images of blood and dopplegangers clinging to his subconscious. His dad would probably check on him a lot more if Stiles didn't keep the door locked.

Deaton gave his diagnosis of a slow but successful recovery after the first week, in which Stiles wasn't conscious for, and he was transferred home. Two days in and Stiles decided to use the lock on his door for the first time in his life that he can recall. His dad freaked out a little, but surprisingly didn't push it. As long as Stiles keeps him updated and reminds his father he's still present, said father lets him be. Although not willingly, Stiles imagines.

He can hear almost daily visitations from people, Scott or Melissa, he assumes. The voices he can hear are usually muffled, but he's almost positive every conversation is about him. Why wouldn't they be?

Derek hasn't visited. He's almost grateful. The things they exchanged in Mana Whatever are Mana Whatever exclusive. He said the things he said because a) he wasn't really lucid, b) he thought he was dreaming, and c) he thought he might die, so... He wasn't really planning on having to deal with someone knowing the things he kept locked inside his head.

Apparently Derek's been in his actual head. Which is... Yeah, he doesn't like to think about it. All he knows is that if Derek does suddenly show up, Stiles definitely won't be able to maintain eye contact for very long. But he doesn't plan on said Sourwolf paying a visit. Maybe Derek knows that what happened in Mana Yaterbla happened because they were both trapped there and confused and... basically just trying to pull through hell. Ish. Derek was. Stiles wasn't.

The blinds on his windows were replaced with curtains. He frickin hates the dark, but it's better than the sunlight. The sunlight reminds him that days are still going by, that life is still going on, when he feels like he's still stuck in limbo. He also thought he'd be a little more unnerved without a way to tell the time. He can sort of estimate days through his curtains, but it's hard sometimes... especially since he doesn't bother to look. He thought the idea of lying there without any way to keep track of time would freak him out, bring up... bad memories. But his first instinct on the first night back in his room was to unplug his clock. He hasn't touched it since.

He doesn't know why. Maybe because it (kinda) removes the guilt of lying in bed all day. Of shutting his dad, his friends, out. He can tell himself it's only been a couple of days. He'll talk to them tomorrow. He doesn't. Hasn't. Probably won't.

He'd like to believe he can just lie in bed forever and never acknowledge the people around him for the rest of his living hell, but he knows the day that his friends and family will say 'to hell with it' is coming and coming fast. He's just relishing his solitary while he can.

If you can call it relishing. It's hard to relish anything when all he does it sleep and think and eat the occasional thing his dad makes him when he can't take Stiles' refusal anymore.

Sleeping always ends with screams. Thinking always ends with nausea. He goes to sleep, wakes up with images of blood and gore glued to his eyelids, and so he retreats into his thoughts which leads to him thinking thoughts he'd rather not think so then he goes to sleep again. And the cycle continues. Has continued for the past... he's gonna stop trying to count the days in which he's been home.

He can smell something buttery; bacon and eggs, he predicts. Maybe some toast too. Normally he'd be jumping for joy and rushing down to eat all the bacon before his dad could. But he isn't normal so he has to stifle the gag on the back of his tongue.

The voice that accompanies his dad's sounds male and young, so it's probably Scott. Scott usually comes in the mornings while his mom comes after her shift. Lydia has visited every once in a while, but after the first couple of days - again, he's guessing - she hasn't come back. It makes his chest hurt a little, but he'd rather not see her at all than see her neck snapping under his fingers again. He's just thankful for her tact and ability to take a hint. The McCalls - or Scott, more specifically, is loyal to a fault and hasn't missed a single day... that Stiles has noticed. He can't keep track of which mornings he's awake for and which mornings he's slept through. He hopes Scott hasn't heard him waking up... He's usually pretty out of it until his dad rushes in. Every time he decides to sleep instead of think, he unlocks the door.

As predicted, there's a two-rapping knock on his door.

"Stiles?"

Well, that wasn't predicted. He's become accustomed to his dad's voice every morning, muffled by his door, so when it's Scott's instead, he has to take a moment to process it. He's surprised when moisture springs to his eyes and he curses his traitorous tear glands for rebelling against his vow of stoicism. But he hasn't heard Scott's voice in what feels like forever; his dad has asked for Stiles' okay before he's let anyone up... Stiles has so far given none.

It takes him a moment to gather himself before his vocal cords feel prepared for use. "M'not hungry," he mutters from his spot on his bed. He hears shuffling behind the door.

"Yeah, your dad said you probably weren't..." comes the muffled reply. Stiles can just imagine him awkwardly looking around for someplace to set down the plate full of scrambled eggs and tender bacon. He smirks despite himself. It feels wrong so it quickly disappears.

"Can I come in?" Stiles can imagine Scott's eyes crinkling at the edges, his mouth quirking like he's tasting his words to see if they came out wrong in any way, shape or form.

Something besides the odor of grease curls his stomach into knots, but he lifts his head (was it always so hard to do that?) off his pillow to eye the plank of wood separating himself from his friend. Somehow he manages to feel claustrophobic and grateful at the same time. He interrupts his thoughts before they can wander by leaping to his feet, immediately remembering why he's stayed in bed for so long when his knees buckle and send him flailing to the carpet. He's also reminded that he's basically a walking bruise. And that his arm is still healing. And that he really should get up slower.

He hurries to recover before Scott can bust the door in to search the premises for super-villains with his coat flaps blowing in the nonexistent wind.

He latches onto the doorknob and uses it to pull himself up, easing it open, moving with the swing and no, he's not hiding behind it - why would he hide behind it?

The smell of breakfast intensifies, wafting into his nose and up to his brain until he has to lean on the door to keep his head from spinning. Scott eyes up and down Stiles body, eyebrows pinching in the microscopic of ways as he probably gets a nice dosage of the I-haven't-showered-in-weeks emanating from the bedroom. But it only last a moment; a genuine grin breaks across his face when their gazes lock. A cavity forms in Stiles' chest.

"Hey," Scott practically laughs, a noise that grates against Stiles' eardrums. You'd think his hearing would be dulled from all the late night screaming, but apparently not because Scott's voice sounds _loud._

"Hey," he croaks, a pitiful noise in comparison. It somehow makes Scott smile wider, though.

Scott takes a step into the room, posture a tad tense but reasurring in a way that Stiles hasn't felt in what feels like a long time. The muscles along his upper back relax a fraction.

"Dude, it's good to see you... standing," Scott continues, smile not once breaking as he pulls Stiles into a quick hug, patting him on the back before pulling away. The urge to shy away from any physical touch clashes with the undeniable _safeness_ that Scott provides like a frickin aura, an inward battle that leaves Stiles standing stiff as a board through the exchange, but Scott doesn't even seem to notice. If he does, he shows no reaction.

He takes a moment to absorb the disaster area that is Stiles room until his eyes land on the massive pile of sheets and comforters that cover Stiles' mattress. Said Stiles has the decency to wince, imagining the strong odor of sweat and sick doesn't fair too well with a werewolf's heightened senses.

"I, uh- I didn't really know you were coming up so... forgive the mess," he stutters, even though he knows Scott has probably seen worse than this.

"Nah, it's nice. Cozy," Scott is quick to reply and that blinding grin still hasn't vacated the area, each second of it making Stiles' chest ache more and more. "How's your arm?" Stiles gives a shrug, stiff muscles pulling taught from the movement.

"Healing," he supplies. A sympathetic grimace quirks Scott's mouth down at the corners and even the few seconds without that smile are worse than the previous ache towards its presence. "Your mom here?" He asks even though he knows the answer by the lack of conversation downstairs. Scott gives a small shake of his head.

"Couldn't make it." The lighthearted grimace remains. "She wanted to, though," he's sure to add, lips finally tilting back up.

A thick silence lands over the room, which Stiles is sure is entirely his fault since he can't seem to get his tongue working. As if it would somehow quench the awkwardness, he eases the door closed, flinching as it squeaks half the way there.

"So are you feeling any better? Your dad says you've been sleeping a lot."

That's what his dad says, huh? Stiles can't tell if it's just Scott treading lightly or if his dad just didn't want to worry him any more than he already was. But he ducks his head all the same and gestures at the nest of blankets and even a few items of clothing. "Yeah, I... I've been really tired." His voice wobbles for some reason, along with his fingers, and he curls his hands into fists to still them. Scott makes sure not to sever eye contact, probably deliberately ignoring the shift in posture. A pang of gratitude swells under his ribs.

"No, it's good. Deaton said you'd need lots of rest." Scott pauses, eyebrows furrowing. "Did I wake you up? I can go if you-"

"Nah, I was already awake," he hurries to say even though his mind is screaming 'YES PLEASE'.

Scott blinks and his eyebrows raise back up, fingers wiggling in the pockets of his coat. More silence rings in Stiles' ears.

"You... you probably have questions about Mana Yatara, huh? How you got there, how you got out... I don't know all the details, but if you have any questions, I'll try to answer them," Scott says slowly, almost hesitantly.

The first obvious answer is 'DUH'. Of course he has questions. The second is, well... why do you think he hasn't asked them? He doesn't want to know. Well, he does... but he doesn't. Curiosity is the only drive to learn the how and the what and the why, but the other side of his brain wants absolutely nothing, _nothing,_ wants _no idea_ of what happened. Of how it happened. Of why it happened. He just wants to forget it happened at all, pretend it never came to pass. It was just a bad dream or some Twilight Zone episode.

"Stiles?"

He lifts his head, only then noticing he's been staring intently at a spot on the carpet for who knows how long. After a sheepish smile, he gives a small shake of his head. "Uh, no. No questions... maybe when I feel a little more up to it, you know?"

"Yeah, sure. Of course... Well, I know you said you weren't hungry, but your dad sent some orange juice up in case you... wanted that."

Oh fan-freaking-tastic. Truth be told, Stiles isn't hungry in the slightest. The only thing he feels he could down is water. Maybe some tea. But he knows his dad is trying. He knows Scott is trying. So he reacts as if pleasantly surprised, slipping back out into the hallway to grab the tall glass off of the tray Scott had set on the floor, popping back into his room as he takes a small sip. He tries to smirk instead of choke. His fingers tremble under the weight of the cup.

"Thanks," he rasps before he takes another swallow. "Yeah, it's-" But his throat decides to screw him up a little more by spilling a few drops of citric down his windpipe, making his eyes water as his lungs spasm, folding him at the waist and at the knees. He drops like a rag doll, juice spilling from his hand onto the carpet. Stars explode like fireworks across his vision at the same time as bombs go off behind his forehead. The pain races down his jaw and crawls into his ears, making them ring like that dog whistle he'd picked up at Walmart when he was a kid even though he didn't even have a goldfish at the time. He's vaguely aware of hands feathering over his shoulders and then his back when he presses his face into the floor. A few tears slip past his eyelashes as the pressure subsides to a persistent itch, his breaths still hitching as he tries to keep the coughing fit at bay, fingernails digging into his palms. The once tentative touches are now strong and gently rubbing circles on his back, grounding him to the present even though his throat feels raw like heat and smoke have inflicted in the past.

"Stiles?" he hears Scott say, the hands sliding up to his shoulders. "Stiles, you okay?"

"M'fine?" he breathes even as he bites back another cough.

"Are you sure? I could get your dad if-"

" _I said I'm fine._ "

The hands on his back ease up ever so slightly. He swallows the ball forming in his throat.

He hadn't meant to say it that loud... or that forcefully... He knows Scott is just trying to help, but... A shaky breath leaves his chest, a familiar weight bearing down on his limbs.

"I'm sorry, I-I didn't..." He breathes out another sigh. He can't bring himself to get up.

"It's okay... I just want to make sure you're okay. We all do," Scott mutters above him, voice low but clear in Stiles' ears all the same. "We haven't seen you for a week... My mom, she's... She's a wreck. We all are."

"I know," Stiles whispers, clearing his throat which only serves to light it on fire. "I know, I'm sorry... I just..." The smell of orange juice penetrates through the fog in his brain, the burning citrus perking his senses enough to feel the air of anticipation above him after he's gone silent for too long. He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. "Could you please leave?" The words roll heavy off his tongue like led, slightly muffled by the carpet, but that doesn't really matter when you're talking to a werewolf, does it?

The reassuring weight of his friend's fingers on his back dissipates at the same time as the warmth of his presence does, the sound of rustling fabric annoucing Scott's retreat.

"Okay," comes the meek reply and it makes something twist painfully in Stiles' chest. "Just... just call me sometime. Text me. Anything... Okay?"

Stiles nods. He doesn't bother looking up.

Scott lingers another moment before lightly treading away, opening the door quickly, probably to keep it from squeaking as bad since he knows this house like he knows his own. A different kind of weight settles over Stiles' back like a boulder, too heavy and suffocating for him to ignore. With enough motion to snap his own spine, he jerks his head to the side to peer at the back of Scott's back, the Alpha's name already on his lips.

"Scott," he says, heart thumping wildly against his wrists curled beneath his chest. Scott swivels to meet his gaze. A small breath leaves Stiles lungs as he prepares his words in his head. Because obviously, anything he's said during the previous conversation was said without a second thought, therefore turning out disastrously and he'd rather not be an accidental jackass anymore. "... Thanks."

Brilliant, Stiles. Just brilliant. He starts to mental facepalm, but stops himself as that lopsided smile returns to Scott's face, a little smaller than before but there all the same. The tightness in his chest loosens an inch. Scott gives a small nod before easing the door shut, despite the obnoxious squeeling that shatters the atmosphere. It ends with a soft click as the latch slides.

The silence returns.

000

 **A/N: I'm sorry for how slow it's going, but this chapter is supposed to give you an idea of where Stiles is at. The plot will come in a bit later, but the first few chapters will be character related, just trying to give everyone an idea of where the characters are set at this time.**

 **I really miss Derek though... gah but Scott! I was just so happy to be able to put him and Stiles in the same room, even if Stiles didn't really want to cooperate with me. XD**

 **Okay, the next stuff is IMPORTANT, so please read it if you had trouble understanding what happened between the first fic and this one. I'mma try and sum up. So, after they got Stiles out, he was basically comatose for about a week as his body fought against the Acheri sickness. After he woke up, he's stayed at home since then, basically hiding from everyone. Hardly anyone has seen him. And that's a sum up of what's happened to Stiles between then and now. All the details following the plot and the how and the what and such will be answered later. :D SORRY.**

 **Anyways, hope you enjoyed. Please, it would please me to no end if you left a comment to give even a nibble of your thoughts. Thank you for reading, guys! Love you all!**


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